


Enemies Closer

by haku23



Category: Dark Wolverine (Comics), Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Wolverines (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4049659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haku23/pseuds/haku23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny and Daken are forced to pretend to be married for a super secret spy mission and have to try not to murder one another in the process. Set post-LA Arc, pre-Fantastic Four final issue, post-ish Wolverines in that Daken has no healing factor or left arm. Or left eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just another totally self-indulgent fic to be honest. I love this trope and I wanted to see the DRAMA of forcing these two babies together with their current, or rather current-ish selves.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right?” Johnny says with a grimace. He has his hands shoved into the pockets of his khaki shorts, pretending at being casual while he projects agony in every other way but his dress.

 

“Listen, Johnny, if he tries to pull anything…”

 

“We’re married aren’t we? I thought pulling things was part of a healthy marriage,” Daken smirks and Ben glares at him.

 

“He means it, ya-“

 

“Don’t be jealous, I promise, once this is all over we’ll be free to elope together.”

 

Ben breaks easiest-prone to anger and using his fists to talk-but he has nothing on Johnny-soft words, flirty text messages, softer touches as though to intentionally put him in opposition of Grimm-however playing them off one another always gets the best result.

 

“I can handle myself,” he grins like a reporter has a camera in his face. Daken contemplates how deeply he can shove one of his claws into his own eye socket before anyone tries to stop him. Probably pretty far; all things considered but then the Fantastic Four remain the Fantastic Four even if one of their members has been rendered less so and he has other people he would rather die for if he must.

 

“Nothin’ t’say to that?”

 

He focuses his attention on the horizon where a bird dives through the air in pursuit of its prey, “I think that joke writes itself.”

 

“We need to get going, a move too late will be too suspicious,” Reed breaks them apart with one of his long, ever lengthening and shortening arms. He presses a box into Johnny’s arms, “some things to keep you sane.”

 

Probably photos of the family, fond memories. Daken doesn’t have it in him to be disgusted at the moment. He helps pack up “their” belongings and gets into the moving van, taking his seat beside his husband in name only once everything has been piled into the back. Johnny stinks of defeat and dread; Daken pushes them away, insulating himself from the bothersome emotions that fill the cab.

 

“Mind if I put on the radio?”

 

“Are you this polite to all of your enemies?” he asks and Johnny grips the steering wheel tighter.

 

“Only the ones I have to force myself to share the same air with for a month.”

 

 “I’m hurt, I thought we had something, Johnny.”

 

The glare he receives doesn’t even reach Norman Osborne “disappointed in all of you” levels in terms of poison but then Johnny rates about angry puppy on the terrifying scale. “Yeah? I’m surprised you’ve even got enough of a heart to get hurt.”

 

He laughs. Johnny turns the radio on full blast in a single movement instead of replying and focuses on the road instead while some teeny bopper wannabe whines about not being not being able to give someone her number. Luckily, their new home doesn’t take long to drive to and when they arrive they find the house already mostly furnished courtesy of the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning. Cosy, with a large, dark brown micro suede couch, beige and green area rugs covering the hardwood floor, but the kitchen bears more of a sleek look he appreciates. At least they left him _something_ without their stamp on it. He spots a couple of carefully doctored photos on the dark wooden mantelpiece once they finish unpacking their clothing and other necessities and manages not to laugh at how happy they look.

 

“What’s so funny?” Johnny asks, hovering in the entryway looking every bit as casually miserable as before. At least here if anyone asks they can chalk it up to being tired from the move.

 

“This photo. This is when you took me to Coney Island.”

 

“Like you hadn’t been there a thousand times before.”

 

Daken shrugs, sets the picture of him and a brown haired Johnny back down, “not for fun, no.”

 

“Look, we don’t have to pretend while we’re inside the house so-“

 

The doorbell rings and he snaps to attention like Captain America just called him “son” before walking the short distance to the door. He hears him talking with his press voice to someone and then closing the door with a bang.

 

“Mrs. Kincade brought us cabbage rolls,” he reappears with his hands on either side of a circular bowl with aluminum foil wrapped over the top of it.

 

“How nice of her.”

 

Johnny looks down, “yeah. Well. I’ll put them in the fridge.”

 

“What?”

 

“What do you care?”

 

He almost feels bad, Johnny reeks of a cocktail of emotions, most of them negative, but he rolls his eye instead, “you don’t have to be here, you know. I can handle this on my own.”

 

“No, Daken, that’s the thing, I do. Cause no one can trust you. So now I gotta be here. With you. Same guy who screwed me over last time, so we can finish this and get back without you selling us out for a better deal.”

 

“Keep your voice down, then neighbours will hear you,” he says instead of responding to any of the statements made. Of course they told him all of that even before he knew who would be playing chaperone but Johnny appearing on the list of possible candidates crossed his mind for only half a second.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re really worried about that.”

 

Hardly surprising that Johnny possesses a flair for the dramatic however stomping up the stairs after storming into the kitchen and back again like a teen from some sort of family-friendly sitcom only makes him laugh rather than consider his actions. He lets him go, and takes the alone time to scope out the rest of their home.

 

The backyard contains a small shed, a ragged looking set of patio furniture, and an overgrown garden. Upon inspection of the shed he finds a rusty set of garden shears and the remains of a bicycle, but not much else. A six-foot tall fence surrounds their yard, mostly shielding it from the prying eyes of their neighbours but when he turns to go back inside he sees someone not-so-covertly spying out the back window. He waves and they wave back, ducking back away from his sight.

 

On the other side of them the back window’s blinds have been closed; no peeping neighbour there, luckily. He walks along the side of the house noting the cracked patio stones and the hookup for the water hose to be used to water their dead lawn and flowers, and frowns at the window left uncovered that gives Tom from next door a clear look into their kitchen/dining room.

 

The front yard sets them a decent length away from the quiet road and he gets a better look at the exterior of their house. Freshly painted a horrific shade of yellow. The rest of the houses on the block sport similar colours, however, and so it only blends them in more for all that it makes him wrinkle his nose.

 

“You the new folks moving in?” comes a voice. He pinpoints the location and catches sight of the older woman on her porch, not beside them but the house next to closed-blinds house.

 

“Yes, my husband and I,” he calls back without moving to get any closer.  

 

“Welcome to the neighbourhood. Don’t throw any big parties like the last assholes.”

 

“Do you mind?” he asks as he starts towards her house. She shakes her head and when he reaches the stairs gestures to the open chair.

 

“Natsumi,” she says when he sits down, but doesn’t offer her hand for him to shake. The name sends ice through his veins that he stops from reaching his face. Up close he can see a cane beside her chair, mostly hidden by her long green skirt, and piercings that climb up her ear on one side. He pegs her at about 60 and doesn’t bother asking if he got the answer correct.

 

“Akihiro,” he bows his head more deeply than she, “a pleasure to meet you.”

 

“So everyone says.”

 

“Then it must be true. So, wild parties?”

 

“Every weekend. You would think they were rockstars the way they carried on. Loud music until 3AM, bottles all over their and my lawn, and their friends…” she shakes her head, “distasteful.”

 

“My husband and I aren’t the type for big parties but if we have one we’ll be sure to invite you,” he smiles and she laughs loudly and openly. She doesn’t remind him of _her_ at all and slowly the warmth returns to his blood.

 

~~**~~

 

Dinner remains a quiet, stifling affair. Johnny won’t look at him and Daken doesn’t bother trying to engage in conversation, at least at first. He waits, careful to keep himself neutral and unthreatening before starting during a commercial.

 

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

 

Johnny stares at the striped curtains covering the front window, then the TV before sighing, “Yeah. Me too.”

 

“And…Before. I never apologized for that.”

 

“Look Daken, it was a long time ago. I got over it. So just,” he lifts his hands in ‘I don’t know’ gesture, “forget it.”

 

“Are you finished with your food?” he gestures to the barely half-eaten cabbage roll on Johnny’s plate and he shrugs.

 

“I guess.”

 

He clears their meal away and leaves Johnny to sulk alone on the couch. Whoever decided he should be out running any kind of mission must be delusional; he broadcasts defeat like the television does commercials and not just because he will be stuck here until they finish the mission.

 

The television doesn’t go silent until at least 3 am and he counts the footfalls until they stop just outside the door. He looks up from his book.

 

“Would you like the bed?”

 

“Sure.”

 

He doesn’t move and Johnny stares at him, “you don’t mind sharing with your husband, do you?”

 

“No, guess not, as long as he doesn’t stab me in the back.”

 

“I’m not in the mood for stabbing anyone right now, you’re safe.”

 

Johnny strips down to his underwear and gets under the covers, his body positioned as close to the edge as he can get without falling off. He can’t seem to decide whether distrust for Daken or discomfort wins out and so he flops around for about half an hour after Daken flips off the light before finally settling on his side with his back to him. But once he falls asleep he doesn’t wake. Even when he touches his back he stays sleeping.

 

Daken slips out of bed and gets to work.


	2. Chapter 2

Their cover has Johnny working at an auto shop for the majority of the day and Daken staying at home as a full-time artist. Johnny doesn’t even know if he can draw, but he doesn’t take much time worrying about it once he starts really working on a car. Nothing compares to flying, but the muscle car sitting in the shop can make a pretty good try at it. The owner had barely looked old enough to be driving and left after dropping it off and giving him detailed instructions on how to take care of it. The kid knows his way around cars, clearly, and Johnny doesn’t know if he should bother asking why he chose to leave his car in a garage when he can probably fix any, if any even exist, issues with it.

 

“Nice car,” one of his coworkers, a guy that reminds him of Luke Cage sans metal tiara says, “y’know, if you’re not feelin’ too confident yet…”

 

He laughs and smears grease across his forehead when he goes to wipe the beaded sweat from it, “yeah right, dude, I’m totally not letting go of this car.”

 

“Anytime you change your mind, man, seriously.”

 

“Keep on waitin’,” he pulls himself back under the car and just lies there a minute. About this time Sue and the kids will be waking up, Reed will still be awake and on his tenth cup of coffee, and Ben’ll be psyching himself up for a TV appearance for some relief fund Sue set up on behalf of the Four. And he works in an auto shop under false pretenses investigating some anti-mutant demonstration still in the whispers stages.

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and only the thought that it might be someone he wants to hear from prompts him to get out from under the car and check the message.

 

‘Having neighbours over for dinner, please pick up dessert’ it says and they have to act, for all intents and purposes, like a married couple so he sends back a positive response with a smiley face emoticon and heart. He can see Daken sneering at it now, but they have a job to do and the faster he gets used to acting like every second he spends with him isn’t like a knife stabbing him repeatedly the faster he can get home. In theory, anyway.

 

He hears Ben’s voice come on the TV and looks up.

 

“You into that comic con stuff?” not-Luke-Cage, Johnny now remembers his name is Nick, asks from his spot hunched over the engine of a car.

 

“Not really. You?”

 

“Not really the type to dress up in tights and parade my ass around town, but The Thing saved my kid a couple years back, I always got time for The Thing.”

 

Johnny snorts and Nick shakes his head, “man, shut up. Comin’ in here with your dirty mind.”

 

“You set it up, just sayin’,” he holds his hands up, “what’s your daughter’s name?”

 

“Reine. Like French for Queen, not like falling from the sky,” he explains and Johnny nods, keeps his eyes on Ben reading off the teleprompter, “you got any kids?”

 

“Me and kids don’t get along that well…”

 

Nick laughs, “yeah, well, her name doesn’t mean Queen for nothin’.”

 

Ben’s segment ends with a terrible pun-“it’s donatin’ time!”-and they get back to work.

 

~~**~~

 

Truthfully, the dinner plans came more out of an annoyance at the boring conversation the other night rather than any real investigating he wants to do but it will serve both purposes so no one can say he doesn’t try. Johnny at least shows up with dessert in enough time for him to shower to wash the stink of engine oil off of him and only minimally protests when Daken shoves clothes at him.

 

“I know how to dress myself.”

 

“All you brought is polos and t-shirts.”

 

“We’re not the First Family, we’re just a couple of guys having our neighbours over,” he shoves his arms into the sleeves of the button-up anyway.

 

“Yes, two upstanding citizens, slightly concerned about the possibility of mutants being in our neighbourhood, not two slobs who smell like cars,” he pushes Johnny’s slow hands away and does the shirt up himself, slower than usual but still faster than Johnny before smoothing his hand over it to make it lay flat.

 

“Are you gonna brush my teeth for me too?”

 

“Are you going to take half an hour to brush them?” Daken steps back, inspecting his work. A dark blue shirt that brings out his eyes and black blazer, with a pair of jeans he lets Johnny wear rather than the planned slacks. Once he reaches the bathroom Daken shoves his hand through Johnny’s dyed brown hair to part it to the side and tries not to frown.

 

“Dude, seriously?”

 

“You still wear a brush cut,” he says as an explanation. 

 

“It’s a classic for a reason.”

 

“It’s dated. The only way it could be more so is if you had frosted tips.”

 

“You parted my hair to the side like I’m Captain America, are you seriously trying to tell me about dated?” he crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child and Daken throws up his right hand and aborts the movement of his left. Anyway he has more important things to do than try to convince Johnny to try something different. As if dyeing his hair will be enough to convince people of him being “Frank”.

 

“Fine, do whatever you like.”

 

“You look like a hipster!” Johnny calls down the stairs at him and God, how easy it would be to just cut out his tongue.

 

He entertains himself with the fantasy while he pulls the food out of the oven-roast with a side of asparagus and potatoes, a typical, non-threatening meal for these people-then carefully sets the table with the plates that don’t look like they came straight out of a school cafeteria. Of course the second Johnny comes down the stairs he raises his eyebrow. His hair has stayed slicked to his head.

 

“Dude this is really Leave it to Beaver.”

 

“You would know.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he goes and grabs one of the bowls containing the sides anyway, “who’s coming anyway?”

 

“Just the two on either side of us. One has children, I am going to assume you can handle a child.”

 

“Me and kids don’t get along.”

 

He takes the bowl from him and sets it down, nudging it a bit so that it stays perfectly in line with the main course, “I saw you at that Make-A-Wish event, and you seemed to get along fine then.”

 

“You saw that?” he smells like soap, the cologne Daken genuinely does like, and hope.

 

He steps into his way to stop him from returning to the kitchen, closing his hand around his wrist lightly. Johnny’s heartbeat speeds up and makes the pulse under his thumb a staccato beat that in a second his own heart synchronizes with, “I see most of the things you do. Mostly of you being stupid.”

 

“That’s pretty rich coming from you,” he breathes out, loud as though trying to steady himself and so does Daken, even their breaths coming in unison now.

 

When he moves closer he doesn’t resist, he lets it happen, lets Daken press their lips together until the pounding of blood under his fingers becomes knocks on the front door, then another set of knocks. His tongue slides across his lips and he smiles before heading over to greet their guests, “the difference is I’m not stupid with an audience.”

 

Mrs. Kincaide, cabbage roll lady, belongs to the house with the closed blinds from earlier, and their other neighbours, the Lucas’, the house with the peeping Tom. They have two children, one 12 and the other five; Darcy and Ethan who look like tiny clones of their parents with matching red hair and all of them sporting freckles across their noses. Mr. Lucas clears his throat, tips to the front window where the curtains have been thrown open, bathing the entire room in sunset glow and broadcasting their activities to the entire street. Daken forces a blush before he starts speaking, letting them think of him as embarrassed while Johnny grins beside him, unaware.

 

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I thought it would be better to get to know one another sooner rather than later,” he says and flashes a smile that makes his cheeks hurt, “my husband Frank.”

 

Introductions go well; Johnny doesn’t slip up and call him Daken, and he only uses minimal pheromones to keep everyone relaxed.

 

“You know, I don’t think I remember seeing either of you come ‘round here to check the place out, you one of those flipper people?” Mr. Lucas asks, between a mouthful of food. His wife smacks him for it and he pushes out some positive reinforcement for her. People have no manners these days.

 

“Something like that,” Johnny answers and Daken doesn’t allow him to continue.

 

“What he means is that we purchased the home online as an ‘as is’ deal. Really, darling, you’ll make our neighbours talk.”

 

“They’re already talkin’ about you,” Mrs. Kincaide says, only her fourth sentence of the evening thus far. Fifth if he counts the ‘don’t touch that you little shits’ directed at the Lucas children from fifteen minutes ago.

 

“Nothing bad, I hope,” Daken fills her nearly empty glass of wine and holds up the bottle in offering. Everyone but Johnny shakes their head and he indulgently gives in.

 

She shrugs and he doesn’t press. Eventually word will get around to someone more talkative, but Daken doesn’t plan on doing anything about it; not yet. Idiots talk, they believe their numbers give them anonymity, and he will, if he has to, prove them wrong.

 

“So, how did you two meet? Pardon me for saying but you two don’t seem the type…to,” Mrs. Lucas trails off. He doesn’t ask her to clarify, doesn’t care to because Frank and Akihiro Murakami do not exist, and just smiles though his face truly aches now.

 

“He was working on my car, I thought he was cute and asked his number.”

 

“Luckily I’d just broken up with my previous partner like the week before so I was like uh, yeah, you can have my number.”

 

“He took me out to see a terrible movie. I took him dancing.”

 

“That movie was great-Fast and Furious 6? He’s got no taste-“

 

“It was terrible,” he pecks him on the lips, “honestly. What about you two?”

 

“Oh, y’know, the usual. High school sweethearts,” Mr. Lucas murmurs, his ears turning pink. He smiles like a dope and Mrs. Lucas does the same. Their children don’t protest at the talk or when he kisses his wife on the side of the head; used to it, then. How novel, a couple in love.

 

The rest of the night passes with Mrs. Lucas and Johnny breaking off to discuss cars and terrible movies and Daken and Mr. Lucas dealing with the kids and Mrs. Kincaide. He teaches them how to draw flowers, lets them touch his hair, and laughs at Mr. Lucas’ terrible jokes. He gets out of Mrs. Kincaide that her husband died a few years back from a heart attack, and pretends to feel upset for her loss. By the end he only barely manages to shove them all out of the door without screaming. He yanks the curtains closed and stops their show.

 

“So you think any of them are-“ he interrupts the question by slapping his hand over Johnny’s mouth.

 

“Just shut up for ten minutes.”

 

God, if the people here get any duller people will start mistaking them for rocks. At least the Fantastic Four put up _pretense_ of being interesting. At least they can keep up with his conversations and think for the most part before opening the hole in their face. He pours himself a glass of wine just for the feeling that he might get drunk enough to forget the inane conversations from tonight.

 

“You hated it.”

 

“What was your first clue, Johnny?”

 

He laughs, “You totally hated it.”

 

“Yes, congratulations, you discovered I would rather spend my time picking up pieces of myself off of the floor than talking with Mr. and Mrs. Leave it to Beaver about their two, wait, let me touch my stomach to imply I’m having another, children,” he slams back the glass and feels absolutely nothing of note, his healing factor gone but his resistance to alcohol mostly remaining, “they’re more boring than _your_ family.”

 

“Their last name was Cleaver.”

 

He glares, “whatever.”

 

“They were nice and you were the one who invited them so don’t blame me,” Johnny grins, thoroughly enjoying his misery no doubt, “c’mere, leave the dishes ‘til tomorrow.”

 

“I’m not leaving anything until tomorrow. I have things to do.”

 

“Then let me help.”

 

“Why, because you don’t think I can do it alone?”

 

“Cause I’m trying to help cause unless you forgot; I’m not the one who goes around blowing people up,” his words barely even cut him, Daken wants to laugh and teach him how to really deliver an insult but Johnny doesn’t have the heart for it. Or rather, has too much of one.

 

“I don’t need your help,” plans fly out the window, the backup plans leave a bad taste in his mouth so he swallows down the venom, “But if you must, you can dry.”

 

 Leave it to Ororo Monroe or Hank McCoy to land him somewhere without a dishwasher after their show of being oh-so-accommodating. If he had known he might have gone to Scott Summers instead, but his father’s scent still lingers on Monroe and only Laura’s good word-rifts between the mutant population or not- and loyalty to a dead man keeps him out of confinement. And only the Four’s involvement in the mission keeps him from being under 24 hour surveillance. But he has walked thinner tightropes, and Johnny remains as pliable as ever even while depression winds through his every movement.

 

He hands him the first dish; they stand side by side in an approximation of a married couple, their shoulders sometimes touching when Daken moves but mostly not.

 

“So, ‘darling’, what do you think? Any of them up to something?” Johnny smiles at their reflection in the window, his acting could use some work, and Daken shakes his head.

 

“It’s too early to tell.”

 

“I don’t think the Lucas’ could have anything to do with it. A family with kids?” he dries the dish with a plaid cloth then sets it to the side on their imitation marble countertop.

 

“A cornered mother will fight animals twice her size to protect her offspring, it’s not inconceivable.”

 

“You think they’d really be one of those families? Keep mutants out so my normie kid doesn’t get cooties? What if one of their kids turned out to be mutants?”

 

Daken pulls a large knife from the suds and leans on it to keep it in place while he wipes down the blade, insuring he gets every last particle off of the steel, “you have a very naïve way of seeing families, Johnny.”

 

“I guess. Kincaide. What do you think of her?”

 

“I think that she’s lying about her husband dying in of a heart attack. But I know that you already favour her and so you won’t listen to a word I say,” He scrubs down a plate, “get that pot.”

 

“Okay. And I don’t already favour her, I just…she’s an old lady.”

 

“Mystique can look like an old lady if she likes.”

 

“You really think Mystique’s gonna come out here just to mess with us?”

 

“I think that I don’t know where Mystique is, but I know that she could even be you. Get the pot.”

 

Johnny rolls his eyes but grabs the pot from where they placed it on the stove anyway, “would Mystique do dishes with you?”

 

“If it suited her.”

 

“That why you’re doing dishes?”

 

“I’m doing the dishes because the neighbours already see me as the submissive one and if that makes them more willing to talk then that is what I’ll be,” he answers and Johnny frowns, not even his cologne or the stench of congealing gravy can hide his disappointment.

 

“Dude, come on.”

 

“Also they can see into this room through that window.”

 

“I’ll get a curtain.”

 

“And a dishwasher.”

 

“And a dishwasher,” he holds down the large pot while Daken scrubs the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> r they just smoochin as part of the act maybe probably maybe??? 
> 
> Also that kid with the car was a reference to Robbie Reyes but he won't be showing up on screen lmao.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much of Johnny being happy or sad is pheromones we just don't know

Johnny’s breathing just evens out when Daken slips from the bed. In a few hours he will wake, shaking and sweaty from a nightmare about something Daken hasn’t been able to put together yet. Something to do with his chest for sure, he refuses to fully undress in front of him, he always wears an undershirt, but more than just vanity. A wound he wants to keep hidden, though he doesn’t smell sick, nor does he object over-much to him touching him there. Anyway, Daken pushes it from his mind for the moment.

 

The shed has proven a simple enough hiding place for things-Johnny has yet to venture into the backyard and Daken has it locked and keeps it dirty and rusted as though never opened. Eventually he will have to move his materials but he doesn’t anticipate the need to for at least another week or two.

 

He pulls the hat out of the dufflebag he has tucked into the corner and yanks it onto his head despite the wet heat of the outdoors before swinging the bag over his shoulder and locking up the shed again, careful not to leave hand or fingerprints in the dirt.

 

Their neighbourhood doesn’t quite qualify as a suburb, but it tries. On the other side of the block most of the houses share at least one side and the amount of affordable sedans parked carefully beside pristinely kept green laws makes him want to gag. He bypasses them completely, a different target in his sights tonight.

 

While Johnny works or sleeps he scours the internet, investigating, finding the cracks in the image the houses present. Not difficult; vandalism exists everywhere and he has never been overly adept at finding the good in anything.

 

It takes almost half of his time budget to find something worth anything but the smell of fresh spraypaint sticks in the air, acting as a trail for him to follow. To the guy’s credit he notices he has a tail almost immediately, used to outsmarting cops or the neighbourhood watch. Not used to something smarter.

 

He leads Daken to an alley with poor lighting and an even poorer smell. “Why’re you following me?”

 

“I’m a fan,” he says, hand in his pocket, “I’m new to the scene; I thought I could pick up some stuff from watching you.”

 

The low-light doesn’t keep him from seeing and smelling the distrust. “Yeah, well find someone else, wannabe. I ain’t no prof.”

 

“That’s disappointing,” Fear now. It pushes the scent of paint from his nose and he smiles, “I guess I’ll just be going.”

 

“Yeah. Get outta here.”

 

He turns and goes, Johnny will wake up soon and he will barely have enough time to tag over the kid’s work before then. He follows the trail back to the original words -“Mutant and Proud”, so cliché-and sprays over it in red, slicing through the letters with little precision. He goes for a straightforward “fuck mutants” before putting his can away and taking off running.

 

He can see the lights from their bedroom from the sidewalk and so he ditches his bag and hat at the side of the house before jogging up the front steps.

 

“Where were you?” Johnny sits in the living room, the TV on and playing some reality TV show.

 

“Out jogging, what does it look like?”

 

His leg bounces up and down-Daken wants to nail his heel to the floor, “at 2am? Come on.”

 

“It’s the best time, no one is out to bother me and it’s not as though anyone here could hurt me.”

 

“Before I would’ve believed you, that’s the messed up thing.”

 

He crosses the room and sits, his left side closest to Johnny. His heart still beats too quickly for him to be calm and Daken exhales, slowing his own heart rate and letting his shoulders drop into a more relaxed position. It takes all of two seconds for it to have the desired effect and Johnny echoes his breath, his heart steadily slowing until they inhale and exhale together. He stops bouncing his leg.

 

“That’s not fair.”

 

“You’re upset, I wanted to help.”

 

“You wanted me to be calm so I wouldn’t call you on your shit.”

 

Daken hums, rests his chin on his shoulder, “that too.”

 

“I wanna be really mad at you.”

 

“You always want to be angry with me.”

 

Johnny sighs, “I wouldn’t if you’d stop lying.”

 

“Then you’d be bored of me.”

 

“No I wouldn’t.”

 

“I was trying to get some leads.”

 

“So then let me come with you,” he sinks into the couch cushions, his eyes half-lidded and drooping more every second, “we’re in this together, y’know.”

 

“You need your sleep. I can take care of it.”

 

His breath hitches when Daken puts his hand on his chest but he doesn’t move, “I wanna help. Besides, I gotta chaperone you, remember?”

 

“Then come back to bed.”

 

“One day I’m gonna be immune to you, dude, and then what’re you gonna do?”

 

“Cry.”

 

Johnny manages a laugh, and Daken pulls away, taking the majority of the pheromones with him. He doesn’t want to have to carry him up the stairs after all. “You’re a huge jerk, Daken.”

 

“You love it.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, trips over the first stair and Daken hauls him to his feet, “I kinda do.”

 

~~**~~

 

He spends the rest of the night stirring the pot online; kids these days have no semblance of proper sleeping habits and the sun starts creating a glare over the screen of the laptop he has borrowed from Logan’s school. Well. It almost counts as borrowing considering he intends to give it back once he finishes with this waste of time mission.

 

“Didn’t you sleep at all?” Johnny’s pushes his hair back with his hand as he descends the stairs.

 

“I’ll sleep when you’re at work. Or tonight.”

 

The concern that makes Johnny’s mouth twist in displeasure nearly make him smile. Nearly. “You that in a hurry to get rid of me?”

 

“Not particularly, I have no plans after this, but I have some things I should to check in on.”

 

“Like your stuff over in Madripoor?” not concern that makes him frown now; he meets Daken’s eye head on, unafraid to see the truth now it seems.

 

“Like that. I haven’t made an appearance in awhile, they’ll think I’m dead again,” he closes the laptop before the screensaver of Wolverine Suxx in an obnoxious shade of pink starts bouncing around the screen.

 

“Yeah. God forbid _they_ think that.”

 

Poor thing, he should put him out of his misery. He doesn’t. “It’s all business, Johnny, no pleasure.”

 

“Yeah, like with me, right?”

 

“I thought you said you got over that,” he goes to the kitchen and pours a cup of coffee. Johnny prefers coffee drinks, he knows, and so he doesn’t offer the dark roast he prefers to him.

 

“Yeah, well, I lied.”

 

“Alright,” he shrugs and drapes himself across the couch, hoping this caffeine will have more of an effect than the other two.

 

“That’s it?”

 

“Would you prefer if I fought you? I could change your mind if I liked, Johnny, but I’m not going to. We don’t have to pretend while we’re inside the house,” he says despite of the ease with which their neighbours can see into their house if they chose to.

 

“Y’know, Laura said you changed a little but you’re still an asshole. How long ‘til you stab me in the back again?”

 

“You’re going to be late for work.”

 

“Yeah, sure, later.”

 

With all of the teenagers at school the majority of the message board he follows slows down, but for a night’s work he can’t complain and patience will be the name of the game. He can’t be going out every night or his plan to draw out the perpetrators will only become obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I feel like I should say this now LOL but Johnny struggled with a lot of shit for awhile w/r/t his powers ok so when I write him flip floppin around or calling Daken a fuckin jerk(which he IS) it's not because I dislike Johnny or want to have people dislike his actions! I love Johnny and so I want to also write him as experiencing things or struggling with his negative feelings just as Daken will also do so rather than simply having him be there just for Daken to kiss lmao. OTL I don't want to explain myself too much because I think that that kinda misses the point of people reading stuff but like I just wanted to make sure you guys know where I'm coming from and it's not a place of LET'S MAKE JOHNNY A JERK FOR NO REASON Johnny is sad, Daken is sad, they're both just...sad. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Johnny leaving for work typically signals nap-time, something previously foreign to him entirely and yet when the doorbell rings he finds himself glaring at the closed door before going to answer it. Natsumi stands on the porch and he of course obliges and lets her in.

 

“I was disappointed to not to get an invite to your party last week. It seemed wild,” she smiles and laughs when he raises his eyebrows, not quite rolling his eyes but close, “are you enjoying the neighbourhood so far?”

 

“Mm. It’s much quieter than our old one; and plenty of things to draw. Would you like tea?”

 

She nods and he goes to the kitchen to turn on the electric kettle. It lacks the charm of a traditional one but it will do for now. She doesn’t move to help him either because she has occupied herself with the photos on the mantle or she allows him the benefit of the doubt that even a one armed, one eyed man can operate a kettle. Which he can’t say for most of the area around his current apartment in Manhattan where he had counted on people being too self-absorbed to bother with him. 

 

“I’m afraid I only have English tea at the moment,” he pushes the loose leaf back into the cupboard above the dishwasher, hiding it from view.

 

“Tea is tea,” she replies, and finally looks over to him with a smile, “you lived in New York before here?”

 

“Yes. Manhattan, among all of the spandex fetishists. Frank and I met there, but we decided it was,” he breaks her gaze, as though his mind has lit upon a particularly painful memory, “time for a change.”

 

Natsumi moves on to the stack of drawings and the sketchbook on the coffee table, “do you mind?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

“Did you ever meet any of the uh…spandex fetishists?” her voice sounds like if he could see her she would be waggling her eyebrows rather than pursing her lips in offense.

 

He laughs, “Sorry, inside joke. I never met any of them personally, but we were close enough that we often saw the Avengers flying overhead. Frank swears he met Wolverine once but I think that he’s just trying to sound impressive at parties.”

 

“I met him once, in a bar in Canada. He’s a lot shorter in person.”

 

“That seems to be a common experience,” he says, carefully modulating his tone and emotional output; it doesn’t hurt in particular that Logan has died, he never knew him really, but speaking ill of certain dead people doesn’t sit well with him and so he prepares to shut the conversation down.

 

“Did you hear that he actually died this time?”

 

“Yes, it was all over the news. The repayment for being a hero, I suppose, is a messy death.”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

He gives her her tea and returns to the mostly coffee he left sitting on the table. She has landed on a messy sketch of the view from a rooftop he originally drew as a map for himself before getting the lay of the land. If she recognizes anything in it she doesn’t say so, “do you always draw still life?”

 

“It’s much easier to manipulate something sitting still,” he replies, “though I see the appeal of a…moving target.”

 

“You have a lot of talent, have you ever sold any of your work, or done an exhibition?”

 

“In Manhattan, yes. A couple of months before moving here.”

 

He doesn’t expect her to press, but she continues, “Really? I have a few friends involved in the art scene there.”

 

When she lists the names he smiles-of course he knows them, having more than a cursory interest in the arts, but not as Akihiro. He wonders how she would react if he told her how he really knows them but feigns ignorance, “it is quite a large community, I’m not surprised I don’t know everyone, but I’m sure that any friend of yours is very skilled.”

 

“I’ll have to get in touch with them, they’re always searching for the next big thing in Manhattan or out of it.”

 

“I would appreciate it; between you and me, art doesn’t exactly pay the bills,” he says, though he privately makes a note to find some way to dispose of her copies of contact information for them.

 

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t. Especially not around here. People hate anything that’s too different.”

 

Which explains why no one else chooses to join her on her porch, he assumes. “Then I should pack my bags now, shouldn’t I?”

 

“Oh, not about gay people, they’re required by law to not do anything about that. I mean mutants.”

 

He hides how he bristles behind his coffee mug, going through his actions during the past week and a half for anything that might have given them away, “what makes you think Frank or I have anything to do with that?”

 

“A hunch.”

 

“I’m sorry to tell you that your hunch is wrong this time,” he laughs as though her statement can be anything more than a joke. They can’t be _that_ obvious and besides that, between the two of them they have only the bare minimum of mutations left.

“Okay, more of a skill. It’s like radar, and you’re a pretty big blip.” She projects a challenge with every breath she takes; it smells like olive branches and paint stripper, pungent enough to make him want to wrinkle his nose but he manages to keep himself under control.

 

“Your radar must be defective then.”

 

Her expression flattens from the subtly excited one she wore before-excited maybe to meet other people like her but he and Johnny have more important things to deal with at the moment, “I see. Then I hope that you will keep my secret. No one knows that I’m a mutant here.”

 

“Of course. If you’d excuse me, I have some work to do.”

 

She nods, and when he closes the door behind him he breathes deep, shoving the exhaustion settling over him again to the side.

 

~~**~~

 

“Sure,” Johnny says, shrugging, “it’s not like I have much else to do, I can take the shift.”

 

“You saved my ass, seriously. She’s real worked up about this recital thing, and with her mom gone I can’t risk missing another one.”

 

“Dude, seriously, it’s fine, you don’t have to give me reasons.”

 

Mike wipes his hands on the rag by the telephone, “and I’m sure you got no ulterior motives for saying yes.”

 

“Aki likes peace when he’s working and I can only breathe so quiet,” he grins and flops himself into the chair in the break room-they haven’t seen a customer come in for hours, and the jobs they do have will take half of one at best, “on the plus side I think I’m actually starting to pick up some Japanese.”

 

“Artists, huh? Either way, let me have you over for dinner sometime next week; bring your husband too.”

 

“That’d be awesome, man, sure.”

 

Mike calls up his daughter, Reine, and Johnny hears her excitement through the phone. It strikes him as weird; most kids he knows are either super kids or part of a charity thing or his own bratty niece and nephew, he doesn’t remember the last time he actually met a kid not involved in anything like that. Not that he minds-Franklin’s birthday parties have given him his fill for the moment, anyway. He should probably ask Daken if he wants any kids so they can get their story straight but entrusting him with a life seems kind of like playing Russian roulette.

 

Either way, it doesn’t matter, they have some fake papers for their fake selves that say they pledge their lives to one another but once this thing ends Daken will be out the door again. This time Johnny won’t be waiting for him when he comes back; as if Daken will care.

 

“I’m gonna let the boss man know about the switch, you want anything from the store since I’m headed that way?”

 

He shakes his head, “nah, thanks.”

 

Mike leaves by the back door, the boss’ office on the lot but separate from the rest of the garage and Johnny slumps forward in his chair. Daken still goes out every night, or mostly every night, to god knows where and Johnny hasn’t bothered trying to follow him with how good his sense of smell is. Like a drop of blood in the ocean, he says, and Johnny even more so now that they spend so much time together. Bullshit or not he lets him go and pretends to be asleep with varying degrees of success; Johnny doesn’t ask where he goes and Daken doesn’t tell him. Some great pair of secret agents they’ve turned out to be.

 

He sighs. Too bad he still can’t bring himself to regret anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time jump a little bit! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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